by Matthew Ward
“Shields! Brace!”
Even then, Sark knew it was too late.
The banner-woman crashed against the front rank. Her sword hacked down. White fire surged. A shield struck the roadway, smote in two. Its bearer reeled, his face masked in blood. A halberd thrust from the second rank. The woman twisted past the heavy blade. Her counterblow split the halberdier’s helm. Still keening her battle hymn, she spurred into the gap.
The lunassera came after. Their hands were no longer empty, but clutched spears of angular, silver light, like shards of splintered glass, or the spirits of smelted weapons. Shields shuddered. Blinded soldiers cried out as the shard-spears cheated shield rims to draw blood behind.
One lunassera leapt impossibly high, her skyward climb hastened by the locked hands braced beneath her bare feet. She descended with spear braced and landed in the third rank. A scream sounded. Silver flashed. Blood spattered blue tabards. The space around her bloomed as soldiers shrank away. Another lunassera dropped into the clearing. And another.
Sark watched it all frozen in his saddle. Unable to speak. Barely able to think. This couldn’t be happening. His perfect battle. His victory. Swept away by shadowthorn witches come singing out of myth. It wasn’t fair. It wasn’t right.
The shield wall crumpled, battered from the front and eaten away from within. Kraikons looked on, silent and unmoving, deaf to their proctors’ desperate commands. Sark was dimly aware of thundering hooves as the Prydonis castellans charged to bolster the line.
They were an age too late. Desperate men and women streamed back along the road, past the immobile kraikons. Lunassera came with them, steps graceful as a dancer’s. Each spear-thrust placed not with a warrior’s frenzy, but an artist’s grace.
But he couldn’t tear his eyes from the banner-woman and her burden.
Sark had learned from the finest tutors coin could buy. He’d won tourneys of the sword, and always from horseback. He knew, with the certainty of stone, that there was no finer student of that particular art than he. He recognised with equal surety that the banner-woman was a novice, borne to victory through wild abandon more than skill.
Though sheeted with blood, the silk banner glimmered with brilliant light that echoed the sword’s darting flame. Beautiful. Perfect. Too perfect. A witch’s talisman, drawing favour from a heathen goddess.
Determination kindling fire in his blood, Sark spurred forward. His sword, previously so heavy in his hand, deflected a spear blow and swept a lunassera from her feet.
Fleeing soldiers blocked his path. He struck them aside with the flat of his sword. A soldier sprawled face-first on the road, a spear in his spine. Sark rode on through a gorge filling with the dead and dying, haunted by bleak song. And there ahead of him was the banner and the flaming sword.
“Witch!”
He bellowed the word, drawing on hatred learned at high altar. Ashana the Traitor. Ashana the Jealous Sister. Corrupter of Light. He rowelled his steed and levelled his sword. Even the greatest battles ended in a single stroke.
The banner-woman turned. The blow meant to split her skull glanced off the golden circlet about her brow. She flinched in the saddle, the banner drooping. The keening ceased.
Sensing victory, Sark lunged.
White fire checked his steel. Heart pounding, Sark back-cut at her throat.
Again fire blazed between them, the incandescent blade rigid and immoveable. Beyond, dark eyes stared unblinking from a still face. Sark’s fervour melted away. No more the avenging hand of Lumestra, no more the valiant knight. He felt scarcely even a man, but an ant staring up in terror at a boot’s descent. He knew the truth of himself. A failure, a braggart and a bully. A man who in his arrogance had doomed those who took his orders.
But worst of all was that the woman knew all that. He was nothing to her. When night fell, he’d be one face among a roster of dead. Another victim of a moon-sent witch.
Weeping with anger and fear, Sark ripped back his sword and swung anew.
Fire rushed to greet him.
The last hoof-beats faded, and the gorge shook with song. Not the madrigal whose unfamiliar verses had sprung full-formed from Melanna’s lips as she’d ridden to battle. This was the cruder bombast of a warrior’s victory. Hammers rang out a pulsing rhythm as they broke apart paralysed constructs and banished the crackling magic within.
Melanna stood apart from the menfolk. Not one of their number had dared approach her. Her head still ringing from the sword-blow that had nearly ended her life, she drank in the cruel, merciless beauty she had wrought.
The gorge was choked with dead, both Hadari and Tressian. The former were already stacked for the midnight pyres. The latter would keep until later – and if the vermin ate their fill before then? Such were the fortunes of war. But these were not the bodies that grieved Melanna the most. Many lunassera would whisper no more prayers to Ashana. Nor could they usher the gravely wounded to her embrace, for they were now at her side themselves. Slain because they’d followed her into battle.
And that last man she’d killed. Less a man at the end, and more a frightened boy.
Was this how all warriors felt after a battle won? How did they stand it?
But if the sight was heart-wrenching, the smell was worse. The thick, rich tang of blood clung to her.
“Savim! You are wounded.”
Sera drew closer, the grace of her movements lent sharpness by her bloodstained robes. Melanna heard concern in her voice – her expression, as ever, lay hidden beneath a silvered mask.
She touched a hand to her brow. The fingers came away red. She’d come even closer to death than she’d believed. But the goddess had preserved her. Or had she? What if the goddess had forsaken her for marching to war in her name? What if it was just good fortune? What if it ran out?
“I’ll live. I’m sorry about your sisters.”
Sera’s lips twitched. “They died for the goddess, savim. We will pray for them. We will weep. And we will be the stronger for their sacrifice.”
Melanna’s stomach churned. But they hadn’t died in the goddess’s service, had they? They’d died for her. The thought shook her to her core. What made it worse was that she knew she’d let it be so again, and without hesitation. After all, that was an emperor’s burden.
Sera brushed a hand to Melanna’s cheek. “You have taken a first step today, Ashanal. Now your father will know your true worth, as he will know the worth of the lunassera.”
Ashanal. Daughter of Ashana. A poetic name of which Melanna felt unworthy. And as for her father . . . She dreaded the conversation to come almost as much as she longed for it. Was that now her life? Truths held in opposition?
“Savim.” An older man in Immortal’s scale and a warleader’s midnight silks splashed through the Greshmar’s shallow waters. The impassive mask of his helm stood stark contrast to the vigour of his tone. Head bowed in respect, he dropped to one knee. “You have my thanks for the victory. And for avenging my son, who fell in the first charge.”
Melanna nodded stiffly. “He served Empire and Goddess well, warleader. As does his father.”
The Immortal’s armour shifted as his chest swelled. In pride, or in grief? Probably a little of both. “It is my honour, savim. Please . . . when the pyres are lit, will you lead the prayers, to guide my son on his Last Ride?”
Melanna hesitated. The rites were the business of priests, not princessas. But Sera offered a surreptitious nod, and she found herself echoing it.
“If that is your wish.” She took a deep breath. “But rise. I will not have you shy from me.”
Haltingly, he obeyed. “Yes, savim.”
“Ashanal,” corrected Sera, a warning edge in her voice.
The Immortal nodded. “Ashanal . . . And there is one more thing.”
“And that is?” asked Melanna.
“We have prisoners,” he replied. “Enough to slow us down and too many to set loose to fight again. What is your order?”
Her order
? Melanna stared down the gorge to a knot of bloodied and miserable Tressians ringed by spears and watchful eyes. She knew the decision the warleader sought. Too many had died that day for clemency. The warleader’s son, and those who had fallen at his side could not ride into Otherworld without companions. Better it be those who had brought about his death than his surviving kinsmen.
And yet, it was one thing to kill in battle. Quite another to order the deaths of the defenceless. To enter the mists was death, whether you did so through failing mortality, or because magic opened the door and duty bore you through. She couldn’t do it. She wouldn’t.
She had to.
For a heartbeat, Melanna thought she saw the Huntsman watching her from among the trees. She thought she heard his voice. This is what you desired. And now you must make it your own.
She couldn’t show weakness. Not now. The history of the Empire was a history written in blood. If she was not prepared to author that tale . . .
“Put them to death,” she said. “All of them.”
Thirty
A crisp, strident blare of buccinas awoke Josiri from wine-sodden dreams. Wincing at the bright evening sun, he edged to the window and stared down at Eskavord.
Beyond Branghall’s wall, a crowd gathered outside the reeve’s manor. The marketplace was full. Not of soldiers – though soldiers stood on the periphery – but of ordinary folk. Properly full, from the lychfields of the church to the walled bank of the river. A double-line of blue council tabards stood at silent attention beneath the manor’s balcony. Josiri frowned. There hadn’t been a reeve in Eskavord since his mother’s death, and Governor Yanda had never been one for speeches. Akadra. It had to be Akadra. Not content with all he’d taken, he now eyed Eskavord. How long before he sought the dukedom alongside?
“Bastard’s welcome to it.” As he spoke, Josiri knew the words a lie.
Even through the haze of alcohol and self-pity, a part of him yearned to go down there. But only a small part, tamped down and wearied. The rest reached for another bottle.
“Sorry about that.” Revekah pulled on the “borrowed” helmet. “You’ll sleep it off.”
The Tressian soldier – now bound, gagged and wedged firmly behind the stable’s stalls – said nothing. Revekah fought a twang of distaste. The lad looked so young. Everyone did, the older you got. Despite the lad’s occupation – despite the creak in her bones – Revekah felt as much a bully as she had at her first meeting with Katya Trelan.
She still remembered that night, clear as Selanni crystal. She’d caught the privileged little snot sneaking about town at an unrespectable hour. The rest of the patrol had egged her on to throw the girl a scare. Barely of serving age herself, Revekah had acceded and dragged the eight-year-old back through the streets to the jail.
Katya hadn’t wept, hadn’t wailed. But the look in her eyes . . . Well, that was where you saw truth, in the eyes. Front couldn’t hide it, nor pride conceal it. It wasn’t until years later, when Kevor Trelan left for Council, never to return, that Revekah marked that same desperate worry in the eyes of the woman who’d since become her dearest friend.
Funny how things changed. And how much stayed the same.
Revekah straightened her sword-belt. Close enough to pass muster. With a last tug on the tabard she left the dung-laden confines of the stables behind for the crowded streets. Soldiers hurried east. Everyone else headed west towards the marketplace.
Revekah joined the former, taking care to put snap in her step. One of the first lessons she’d learned back in the day: look like you belonged, and you could go wherever you liked. So it proved. No one challenged her as she trod the cobbled road straight through East Gate and out onto the muster field.
The black pavilion couldn’t have more obviously belonged to nobility without squires standing at attention with wine and roast swan. Unguarded, which was all for the best. Getting in and out would be tricky enough without enemies close at hand.
Careful to maintain her steady “I belong here” pace, Revekah slipped inside. As her eyes adjusted to the gloom, she felt a pang of disappointment. The interior was almost frugal. A blanket-strewn cot, a trestle table, two folding chairs and a pair of haversacks. Hardly the decadent vista she’d expected.
And no Akadra – although that had been a slim hope. Still, that was how life went. Hurry up, do nothing and wait. The owner would return before his army marched.
And then she’d kill him. For Josiri. For Anastacia. And for Katya. For Katya, most of all.
“Time to prove your patience, old girl,” she breathed. Soft, heavy footfalls thumped beyond canvas. Revekah stiffened and reached for her dagger. “Or maybe not.”
The tent folds parted.
“Forgive the intrusion, my lord, but a herald’s . . .” Kurkas let the flaps fall closed. “What do we have here?”
Revekah winced. Of all the men to cross her path, it had to be Kurkas. If he recognised her . . .
She threw a salute. “Was looking for his lordship, sir. A message from the duke.”
Kurkas nodded. “What it is to be popular . . . No one ever teach you it’s poor manners to enter an officer’s tent without invitation?”
She swore silently. “The duke said it was important, sir.”
Kurkas snorted. “I’m certain he did. Go on, give me your message and be on your way.”
“The duke said it was for Lord Akadra only.”
Kurkas crooked the brow above his eyepatch and rolled his remaining eye. “I shall be the soul of discretion. Let’s have it!”
“As you wish.”
Revekah sprang. Seizing a handful of Kurkas’ tunic, she hooked a heel behind his boot. She bore him to the ground, knees astride his chest. Her forearm slammed against his throat, choking off his cry of alarm. The oiled dagger slid free and arced down.
Kurkas’ forearm slammed into hers. The dagger shuddered to a stop an inch from his throat.
“Changed my mind,” he gasped. “Reckon this is a message best left for his lordship.”
Revekah grunted and ripped the dagger back for another blow.
Kurkas bucked beneath her. His hand closed around her throat.
Starlight exploded behind Revekah’s eyes as his forehead slammed into hers. A heavy shove sent her backwards. Blinking furiously, nausea crowding her throat, she staggered to her feet.
Kurkas reeled unsteadily upright. He blinked away a trickle of blood, the gesture disturbing his tangle of greying hair. “Yeah. Never doing that again.”
“You’re right about that.”
Revekah let the dagger fall and ripped her sword free. Kurkas’ shoulder took her in the chest. He crushed her against the tent’s heavy central pole before she’d time to swing. His fingers hooked beneath her helm and dragged it away. A beady eye stared out from an unshaven face.
“Thought I recognised that voice. Captain Halvor, eh? Years ain’t been kind.”
“You’re one to talk,” spat Revekah.
“Years alone didn’t take my arm, nor my eye. Which reminds me, you still owe me for both.”
“Then you can add this to my debt!”
Revekah brought her knee up between his legs. Kurkas yelped and sank away.
“Well played,” he gasped.
Revekah lunged.
“You’re certain of this? I’ll not think less of you for changing your mind.”
Calenne sighed with exasperation. “How many times must you ask that question?”
Viktor shot her a sidelong glance as they left the quartermaster’s tent. Her travelling clothes topped with borrowed breastplate, sword and a rich king’s-blue cloak, Calenne looked every inch her mother’s daughter.
“At least once a day.”
“I’m giving you my hand, Viktor. Not my soul.”
“That’s not the part that concerns me.” The wedding, and all the complications it awakened, were a problem for another day. A day that might never come.
Her forehead wrinkled, then smoothed. “
I know. I’m not a fool. I’m prepared for the risk. At least . . .” She paused, her lip twisting as if chewing on bitter fruit. “At least I’ll have done something for someone other than myself.”
Would she say that if she’d lost as many comrades as he? If she knew not only the cost, but the tally of blood and fear in which the reckoning would be levied? Viktor wasn’t sure. Then again, who was he to judge? Guilt and duty differed only in the timing. Perhaps he only embraced one to avoid the other? And in the end, what did it matter if the gathering war claimed Calenne alongside the hundreds it would surely take before it was done? To the world, almost nothing. But to Viktor himself?
Perhaps it wasn’t her commitment he questioned, but his own.
Lost on a sea of troubled thought, he let most of the distance to his tent fall away before speaking. “Your mother would be proud.”
Calenne snorted. “My whole life, I’ve been surrounded by people certain that Katya’s voice carried to them from beyond the pyre. But this time? Maybe you’re right.”
Viktor nodded. “I’m certain . . .”
A dozen paces ahead, the tent shuddered. A man’s cry of pain split the air.
Viktor covered the distance at a flat run and ripped the tent-folds aside. He took in the prone, bloody Kurkas; the white-haired woman with a naked sword. She spun towards him, face contorting with anger.
His shadow erupted, a torrent of icy darkness that flooded the space between them. The woman screamed as it gathered her up. It twisted the sword from her grip, wended about her limbs like hissing snakes, then hoisted her a foot above the ground.
“Who are you?” he demanded. “What is the meaning of this?”
Even through his anger, Viktor recognised the pointlessness of the first question and the stark obviousness of the second. More than that, he felt the first uneasy glimmer at how suddenly and completely the shadow had burst free, and without conscious command. Elzar had been right. It wanted to be used.